


- S.H.

by shezinafez



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A teensy bit of Mystrade, Case Fic, First Kiss, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Prom, Slow Dancing, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:39:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1849906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shezinafez/pseuds/shezinafez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is just about bored out of his brilliant mind stuck in year eleven at the stupid school Mycroft made him go to, and the last thing he needs is to be distracted from his case. But then he meets John Watson, an unassuming boy who somehow manages to find the cracks in Sherlock's armour. The only problem is that a mysterious stranger is leaving Sherlock messages and he doesn't have time to find out who before the climax of all his fears... Prom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock didn't know when it had happened and it annoyed him. He hated not knowing something important and the occurance was so rare that this time he was almost shocked. When had he started catching his breath every time _he_ so much as brushed past him? But Sherlock Holmes didn't do shocked so instead he sighed in frustration and stomped through the packed school corridors cursing everyone's stupidity in this school, especially John Watson's. 

It simply wasn't fair, Sherlock decided, John Watson was probably doing it on purpose just to annoy him. That would be typical of those moronic football players with heads filled with air so similarly to their precious footballs, and so it wasn't HIS fault if he couldn't keep his eyes from drifting over to the back of a certain sandy-haired head during class, or if his chest suddenly grew tight whenever John Watson happened to pass.

 

On several occasions Sherlock had worried that he was having a heart attack, and frankly that would explain his recent distraction; not even the case that he had stolen from Mycroft's desk at high cost was interesting any more. Somehow John Watson had managed to creep into Sherlock's mind and kept filling it up with useless thoughts at inconvenient moments. Ugh, sentiment. How Mycroft would scorn.

On this particular day Sherlock was just resigning himself to another six hours of torture in this poor excuse of a school filled to the brim with idiots, when a notice that had been hastily put up - in the last twenty minutes, Sherlock deduced, by a woman, right handed, pink nail varnish slightly chipped and... ah! A ginger cat! Mrs Smith then. But why was such an innocent looking poster captivating such a large audience? Sherlock had to push his way through quite a crowd to get close enough to read the sign, but when he did he wished he hadn't bothered.

 "Year 11 Prom will take place on Friday 27th June. Dates are required for attendance." 

Sherlock groaned inwardly at the stupidity of this school, so stuck in the past; even if he ignored the pointlessness of an evening of socialising with infinitely boring individuals, there was that Victorian idea of having to bring a date. Sherlock shuddered. Nothing could possibly induce him into going.

Nothing.

 

****

John had never been the most academic of people; or at least that's what he told himself and his football teammates on a regular basis. It wasn't that being clever was frowned upon, it just wasn't the done thing for a "football lad" like him to be interested in anything that required more thought than the tactics of the next game. But for a while now John had been secretly sneaking to the library before and after school to read up on science, purely because he loved it; finally something seemed to slot into place the way football never had and John knew that what he really wanted to do was something very different to everyone else's expectations of him.

He smiled wryly at himself, sat there alone in the library, reading a biology textbook - anyone would think he was Sherlock bloody Holmes! Immediately after having this this thought, John felt bad; he was sure Holmes wasn't as awful as people made out. In fact, John's naturally caring disposition had led him to a lot of mental conflict on the matter of Shelock Holmes; he was reluctant to stand by and watch as the poor boy took yet another snide remark in his stride, and yet he was equally too focused on not rocking the boat, not appearing too different in case he himself became a target, to speak up.

Not to mention the fact that Holmes was such a contrary piece of work that he would probably bite John's head of if he so much as offered up a smile. John wrinked his forehead and ran his hand through his hair distractedly because this kept happening, one moment he would be concentrating on the page in front of him and the next all the scientific terms had blurred into a lanky figure with tousled ink-black hair...

John stood up suddenly. Enough was enough. This was ridiculous and anyway, lessons were about to start. He started to pick his way through the corridors towards his first lesson, pausing now and again to smile in what he hoped was a casual amd innocent fashion at various members of the football team, trying hard to draw attention away from the biology book traitorously poking out of his bag.

When he turned the final corner, however, John's way was blocked by a chattering crowd mainly made up of extremely excited girls. Being the hero of the previous football match had its unexpected consequences; in his last game John had scored the winning goal and ever since then it seemed like all the girls in the school suddenly knew his name. Most of the time this just made John acutely uncomfortable and left him inexplicably feeling completely wrong in himself, as if everyone was looking at a mask he had put on and if he finally managed to take it off then no one would know him, but for once this came in handy as the gaggle of girls parted for him allowing him a clear view of the cause of this excitement.

"Prom" 

The very word felt like a lead weight in John's stomach as he thought of what would be expected of him. And a date... well at least here John would theoretically have no trouble but the idea of a prom date made him cringe.

Turning away and striding towards his English classroom to escape the scene and try to put all terrifying thoughts of prom out of his head, John was so preoccupied that he stumbled into a tall figure who must have also been trying to escape, John thought sympathetically. Poor guy. John was just looking up to see who he had nearly mown down, cursing his short height for about the thousandth time, when a stuttering "S-sorry" came from above.

In amazement John recognised the deep, chesty voice of Sherlock Holmes, of all people! Apologising to John! The look on his face was for once devoid of that sarcastic expression that John was sure he must practice in the mirror, and as John looked up into the taller boy's face he thought he saw a slight flush forming on the crystal skin of Holmes' notorious cheekbones. For a split second John felt breathless before he mentally shook himself; this was really getting ridiculous. 

Before he could articulate a reply, since John's throat seemed to have temporarily failed him, Sherlock's expression had changed and John found himself looking into a face as hostile as ever. Sherlock Holmes swept past John with an overly showy sweep of his far too long blazer, leaving him to confusedly try and calm his rapidly beating heart.

 _Get a grip on yourself, John, or the next thing you know you'll be offering to help Holmes with his homework._ John snorted. Like the great prodigy Sherlock Holmes ever needed help with anything.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is quite a short chapter...but just wait until the story really warms up!  
> Here we have poor Sherlock confronted with what could turn out to be his best dream or his worst nightmare - enjoy!

Thankfully the ceaseless prattle of the entire school in completely senseless anticipation of this _Prom_ had calmed to a dull mumble by the end of the week - or so it seemed to Sherlock, who blatently had more important things to attend to. He was just telling himself that it was obviously this infuriating matter that was distracting him, and  _nothing_ to do with the fact that he had finally spoken to John Watson, when he became aware of someone saying his name with increasing frustration. 

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, listen to me when I am speaking." 

Sherlock started and glanced around quickly, nauseously feeling like his surroundings were suddenly alien; his mind had been so far away from this dull classroom full of dull people.

"Yes... What were you saying?" Sherlock made a vague attempt at politeness, after all this was Mrs Hooper - Molly's mother and the most tolerable teacher in the school, which wasn't a particularly difficult feat if he was honest.

" _If_ you will listen to me, Sherlock, I was just telling you about the London Award for Science. I think you should go for it! With your mind... you could be incredibl-" 

"Not interested" Sherlock cut her off brusquely. He hated school competitions with all those despicable _children_ who thought they had a chance against him. It was insulting to his intelligence, really.

"Anyway," he glanced at the flyer that Mrs Hooper had hastily pushed into his hand, giving it a cursory scan, "It says here that it requires a paired entry. You must know that I only work alone." Sherlock frowned into Mrs Hooper's familiar face, busily deducing the real reason for this conversation. No, she couldn't really think that... 

"I'm not _lonely_ , Mrs Hooper" Sherlock said in an outrage that only made Mrs Hooper smile indulgently. "And how would you know, dear."

That woman was insufferable. Sherlock would have to confront Molly about her parent management at the earliest possible opportunity. First, though, he would have to solve the matter at hand: "Who'd want to be parntered with _me_ " Sherlock sneered, "I'm a sociopath, remember!"

He was lashing out to cover up the hurt of being labelled friendless, and Sherlock knew it, but the unfairness of his illogical anger towards Mrs Hooper just made him more cross and unreasonable. Besides, he was a _Holmes_ ; aloof, solo artists royally gliding alone through life, barely skimming the surface of the world. Mycroft, Sherlock thought bitterly, was just perfect at upholding the name and he would be, the condescending cake-loving...

"But the funny thing is," God, was Mrs Hooper _still_ speaking? Did her vocal chords never dry up from the sheer strain? "You're not the first person to say that to me today, Sherlock."

_What_. Sherlock's finely-tuned mind frantically scrabbled for purchase on this new slant to the problem; she couldn't have possibly asked _someone else_ to take part in HIS competition.

Mrs Hooper however, knew Shelock well - and before he could explode into a rant on the stupidity of her, science and the universe in general, she gently halted his racing mind: "John Watson, nice boy, very interested in medical science I think. Well, he never says anything, but I can tell. The best scores in the year on that last biology mock... except for you of course," she added hastily, catching sight of Sherlock's startled expression and possibly mistaking it for anger. "He was very keen to take part, but didn't think anyone would want to work with him."

Sherlock almost didn't hear those last words, as his heart had suddenly migrated up into his ears and the sound of his roaring blood deafened him temporarily. But he forced himself to breathe and stop this nonsense; it was completely illogical to think about John Watson being his partner, working together, him leading John to victory, how a smile would light up John's features just so...

Stop stop STOP! Now Sherlock felt out of his depth in the way he hadn't been since he was a child and his father had said goodbye; how had his brain, his one true weapon, abandoned him and given in to his rapidly swelling heart that was defying the very laws of biology that _John Watson_ was apparently so proficient in. In a moment of crisis, Sherlock latched on to what he knew best; science. He could fix this through pure science. Statistically, he knew, the chances of two people actually being compatable once they had more than one short conversation were greatly reduced.

Sherlock felt relief swirl though him; his foolish idolising of Watson would stop as soon as Watson revealed himself to be as much of a football-headed imbecile as Sherlock knew he must be. Despite this, Sherlock had to try and ignore the painful sinking in his stomach that accompanied that thought, and instead he concentrated on entreating his mutinous voice into action.

"Yes. I'll do it." Sherlock was proud that his voice only sounded a little dry as he accepted what he anticipated to be a complete disaster. Rather rebelliously, Sherlock challenged the voice inside his own mind, that for some reason sounded strangely like Mycroft; he could do this, he could prove himself to be a Holmes. Caring was NOT an advantage.

Bring it on, Watson.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! I am loving this whole thing so watch this space... more chapters coming soon! (Also, you have all heard the news right?! A FULL SERIES AND A SPECIAL! I am so excited right now.)

"John!"

He winced; couldn't Mrs Hooper _see_ that he was on his way to football practice with his friends? Perhaps if he just kept walking...

"Can't you hear me, John?" His heart sinking to his new football boots, John slowly turned, preparing fruitlessly for his doom, and faced Mrs Hooper with what he hoped was a polite smile, amidst the snickers of his friends.

"Sorry Mrs Hooper but I'm just on the way to practice," he gestured at his kit desperately. "So, you know, I can't hang around..." John's voice trailed off into insignificance as he realised how feeble he sounded. Thankfully his prayers seemed to have been answered and Mrs Hooper - whom he could have sworn had just grown angel's wings - briskly ushered his friends on, saying something about "catching up with John's homework" which must have been a satisfactory explanation as the footballers' mutterings turned into jokes and pats on John's back.

"See you in a bit then mate." Well, if John's lingering behind to speak to their science teacher was acceptable to George Street, the captain of the team and probably the most powerful boy in the school, John could safely breathe again. Even so, he watched carefully as the rowdy crowd who for some reason called him their own strutted off out of sight before he found the courage to address Mrs Hooper as the friend she had been to him in these last few months.

"I'm so sorry," but John's excuses never seemed worthy - he felt like he was lying to everyone around him and in the end he didn't know who that benefited. Certainly not him. With a grimace Johm tried to convey his difficulties and the perveptive Mrs Hooper, as usual, smiled warmly and thought none the worse of him for trying desperately to preserve his standing in the team. "Nonsense dear, I just wanted to tell you that I have found you a partner for the competition!"

These words made John more genuinely happy than he had been in weeks; he had hardly dared to hope for it, but this could be the answer to all his problems, if only he could do well. Smiling, he asked who the miraculous Mrs Hooper had conjured up, but was utterly unprepared for her reply.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Why was his heart suddenly beating at double time? John blinked, confused at the turmoil of emotions that had been conjured up in an instant. He should be pleased to work with Holmes, who really was very talented, and he _was_  - but equally mixed in was a dread of having to be at close quarters with Holmes on such a regular basis. What was the matter with him?

But John was practical, if nothing else, so he dismissed his strange feelings as an understandable nervousness when faced with the intimidating Sherlock Holmes, and told Mrs Hooper that he was _so_ pleased, and that he would be happy to set up a meeting with Sherlock. _In a couple of days please,_ John thought,  _let me get my bearings a little here_.

"That's good," smiled Mrs Hooper encouragingly "because you're meeting in my classroom straight after football." John's heart commenced it's racing, making him feel slightly sick, but he squashed his confusion down firmly and assured Mrs Hooper that he would be there after practice.

_Just don't expect me to shower especially_ , John thought stubbornly, _I don't shower for Sherlock Holmes._

 * * *

Football practice was no different to usual, with a lot of mud - it had been raining solidly for about a week now, reflecting John's mood - and ultimately ending with John feeling the rush from exercise at a distance, as if in a different person whom he was merely brushing past. He didn't know when football had stopped being something he looked forward to and had started being a task he had to get through, but it was exhausing to try and convey enthusiasm he truly didn't feel. So John left football practice on this particular day tired and aching inside as well as from the exercise, but excited at the prospect of the arranged meeting.

By the time he had waved all of his teammates from the changing rooms, he had scarcely enough time to run though the deserted corridors, having hastily kicked off his muddy boots to prevent trailing tell-tale footprints along the carpets, and clatter into Mrs Hooper's familiar classroom with such suddenness that the room spun slightly as he focused on the tall figure by the desk. He seemed to have been intently studying something through a microscope, but John's arrival must have shocked him, as Sherlock swiftly stood up - knocking over his stool as he glared accusingly at John.

Framed in the doorway, out of breath and probably looking a complete mess, John felt very exposed under Sherlock's intense stare, as if he was being x-rayed and all his deepest secrets were on display.

"Haven't you heard of knocking?" Sherlock seemed irrationally angry to John, after all he had supposedly agreed to be here, so John replied archly, "Haven't _you_ heard of politeness? I'll start shall I? Nice to meet you, Holmes, I'm John Watson." He held out his hand.

John half expected him to ignore this and go back to his microscope, but Holmes inexplicably tilted his head so that those inky curls fell over one eye. John found himself staring in fascination at the movement of this curl; a sweep of pitch black contrasting beautifully with Holmes' opalescent skin...

"Sherlock."

John coughed hastily and prayed that those x-ray eyes could not read his embarrassingly wandering mind. "I'm sorry?"

"It's Sherlock. I- you can call me Sherlock." His voice seemed to be slightly strangled and John wondered whether this uncharacteristic show of friendliness had been torn unwillingly from Sherlock. Or perhaps he was just as nervous as John. This thought gave John confidence and he gave Holm- no, _Sherlock_ a tentative smile.

"So, Mrs Hooper said you were up for this competition then," John said as casually as he could, trying not to convey his excitement. He had a feeling that this was useless though, and that Sherlock knew exactly what he had hidden from everyone else for so long.

Sherlock grunted and turned back to the lab table. John's heart sank slightly, but he had never expected this to be plain sailing. He watched the other boy's hands move with balletic elegance, adjusting the magnification and jotting down notes in a black book, and John thought he had never seen anything so mesmerizing. He could have watched Sherlock work all day, but without realising it he had sat down next to him at the bench and was nodding along as Sherlock identified another compound in the dubious mixture he seemed to be analysing, and then Sherlock was looking up at him in utter confusion - startling John out of his reverent trance. "What are you doing?" Sherlock sounded completely perplexed, and John couldn't imagine why - surely everyone who was lucky enough to witness the beauty of his skill would become equally transfixed?

John cleared his throat, "Amazing!" Sherlock looked at him in what John thought was astonishment, which gave him a smug satisfaction; he had never seen Sherlock shocked before. "The way you work... it really is amazing!" Sherlock blinked at him and frowned, a deep crease crinkling his smooth forehead, and John had the sudden mad desire to reach out and smooth it with the pads of his thumbs. Instead he grasped his hands together and looked into Sherlock's face as the boy replied slowly, "That's not what people usually say."

"Well, whatever they say doesn't matter," John said firmly. He certainly wouldn't have anyone telling this genius that he was anything less than incredible; John felt a rush of protectiveness for Sherlock, who seemed so broken as he looked at John with a shattered expression in his eyes, and in that instant John knew that he would try to sheild Sherlock from any more hurt.

"Yes," said Sherlock faintly, "they're idiots." John nodded his agreement and they set back to the analysis of John-still-wasn't-sure-what in companiable silence. After a while, when Sherlock handed something to John, looking at him for agreement as to whether this was really a compound of sodium or not, he felt so honoured to be involved that he nodded mutely and, completely distracted, spent the next ten minutes idly brushing some white powder from the desk into swirling patterns with his fingertips.

"Stop that John, it's highly corrosive and likely to be toxic in the right quantities." John started, shocked out of his happy thoughts of a team completely and brilliantly unlike the one he was used to. Sure enough, the dry mud that had coated his hands was now smoking slightly and rubbing off. John hastily went to brush his hands against his shorts, somewhat alarmed, but Sherlock caught his hands in his own and held them up to the light.

"Brilliant, John!" John wasn't sure what was so brilliant about his hands being at risk of corrosion, but with Sherlock's strong musician's fingers encompassing his own, he didn't trust his voice to question this statement. The last light of the spring evening was streaming through the window and the sun had burst through the clouds in a final display, making their clasped hands glow pink, and John's breath caught in his throat. Never had he felt so at one with another person that the time had literally flown by without him noticing, and now he gazed in annoyance at the traitorous sinking sun that meant he would have to leave this perfect dream all too soon.

"It dissolves mud, don't you _see_? It's so _obvious_!" Sherlock was delighted with himself, and his enthusiasm was catching. John smiled because science was his passion too, and finally he had someone to share it with.

If only Sherlock wasn't so bloody _clever_! John knew he had better get used to this feeling of being so many steps behind, but for some reason he found that he didn't mind that much. It was enough that Sherlock had allowed him into his experiment, he didn't have to _understand_  everything.

"Hold on a sec Sherlock, so does that mean it must contain some sort of acid to react, or would the carbon content in soil displace it..." And so they happily passed the next few hours, with Sherlock cheerfully dismissing everything John said, and John making increasingly wild guesses until suddenly...

"YES!" Sherlock jumped off his stool with such vigor that he almost knocked John, who had been leaning his head on his hand just for a moment's rest, off the desk.

"What? What is it? I was just repeating what you were saying earlier about how it must be..." John's voice trailed off as he caught sight of the wondrous expression on Sherlock's face.

"John Watson you are a _brilliant_ conductor of light!" Sherlock exclaimed happily, busily scribbling in his notebook. "Well, thanks I guess," smiled John "but what did I do?"

"You solved it!" Sherlock declared with relish. "Actually, I did, but you were the conductor for my genius." That made John laugh; this ridiculous being who seemed so spiky and difficult but was actually capeable of such enthusiasm and delight was probably the most brilliantly insane person John was ever likely to meet, and here they were doing experiments on god knows what late into the evening and _John loved it._

 "Same time next week?" Sherlock was looking at him with a slight insecurity in his proud features, and John nearly hugged him because at last he had found a friend who he could relate to. "I can't wait!" he declared with sincerity, and was delighted to see the first true smile he had ever seen pass Sherlock Holmes' lips. It totally transformed his face, lighting it up from the inside and creasing the stern features into friendliness. At that moment John would have spent all the time in the world trying to make him smile like that again, but Sherlock simply said "So you'll be my partner?" and John replied,

"God yes."

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock finds a case, a note and a small, sandy haired ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I am sorry for the delay in posting this, but you know, life happened...
> 
> This chapter includes Mycroft, who I was a bit nervous about writing because my great friend loves him and I didn't want to mess it up! I hope I have passed the test!
> 
> Thanks for reading! As ever, your comments and suggestions are very welcome, and if you have tumblr, come and say hi! - shezinafez.tumblr.com :)

Sherlock's mind was full of John Watson, thoughts blossoming through his mind palace, reaching every corner and filling it with curious new data. Just hours ago he had held John's hands in his own and felt the blood pulsing through them, felt John's muscles move as he twitched his fingers but _he hadn't pulled back._  

He hadn't stared at Sherlock in disgust like he was some kind of freak and left him alone, instead joining in with his experiment, apparently enjoying himself. John had even been the catalyst for Sherlock's own genius, he thought musingly.

In short, John Watson was nothing like Sherlock had planned, and frustrating though that was - Sherlock _hated_  it when the world didn't cooperate with his every desire - he couldn't help but feel a glowing sort of hope flowering in the sunniest rooms of his mind; John, unique specimen that he was, had smiled at him and promised to meet him next week.

It was almost like having a _friend_.

But there Sherlock shook himself out of his contemplation with steely determination - he didn't have friends. Sherlock Holmes needed nobody, and he tried to ignore the nagging voice at the back of his head that whispered quite the contrary.

It was late, and Sherlock lay tangled in his sheets after hours of tossing and turning, arguing forward and backward with himself until his mind was in knots and he knew that sleep would be impossible. He felt wrong-footed, as if someone had suddenly pulled the rug from beneath his feet and he was falling, falling, and soon he would land inelegantly on his face, and more fool him for allowing himself to be tripped in the first place.

That was the last straw. If it had come to creating _metaphors_  then Sherlock would have to get up. He frowned at his ridiculousness. Metaphors indeed. The whole thing was getting out of hand, and it was all _John's_  fault; he had stood there with the light turning his hair to gold and his face all glowing and perfect, making Sherlock question whether he was perhaps an apparition and giving him the sudden, irrational desire to touch John just to check if he was real.

Sherlock rolled out of bed with a needless flourish, considering it was past midnight and pitch black, but then Sherlock never walked when he could swoop, swishing his clothes like a cape behind him.

He expertly dodged the creaky stairs that had been his nemesis ever since his insomnia-prone childhood self had stumbled and woken the whole household. Of course, in those days Sherlock could be sure of being found during his night-time wanderings, and it was not nearly as unpleasent to be found and wrapped up in a blanket in his father's study rather than wandering aimlessly towards the kitchen.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in frustration; what was wrong with him tonight? First he couldn't stop those irrational thoughts of John, smiling and bathed in sunlight, and now he was opening doors in his mind palace that had been shut ever since his father-

"Trouble sleeping, little brother?"

Sherlock cursed inwardly; he had been so preoccupied that he had not registered Mycroft's distinctive tread in the kitchen that opened out onto the staircase. Light was spilling from the kitchen, creating a luminous halo, cutting into the darkness around his older brother that would decieve some into comparing Mycroft to an angel. Sherlock knew better; Mycroft was, in fact, more likely a minion of satan sent to make Sherlock's life hell.

"Fancied a cake, did you?" Sherlock remarked snidely as he took in the crumbs on Mycroft's fingers and the slightly guilty expression on his face. Mycroft frowned at him, all weakness instantly erased into neutrality in a manner that Sherlock had envied at times.

"Actually I heard you tossing around," he said pointedly, "Case bothering you, brother mine?"

"Like you'd care," Sherlock muttered, angrily aware that he was not putting up a very good counter argument. Mycroft smiled in that annoying way that he always did when he thought he was being clever.

"Maybe you should stick to things _in your area_ if you get my drift. I'd hate for you to get involved in something out of your depth."

Sherlock frowned in response; what was Mycroft referring to? If he didn't know better Sherlock would think his brother was warning him away from something, trying to protect him for some inexplicable reason, but he knew Mycroft better than that. This was probably part of one of his elaborate manipulations that fooled everyone into thinking Mycroft cared - everyone except Sherlock. It was he who had crept into Mycroft's room when they had been children and found him crying softly into his arms, and he could still hear him saying, shouting at Sherlock for coming in unannounced, that he would never make that mistake again.

_Caring is not an advantage_. He and Mycroft had certainly learnt that the hard way. Mycroft tilted his head in an exasperatingly condescending manner - Sherlock was not a _child_ for goodness' sake - and continued: "Of course, if you ask me, and you really should before you _help yourself_ , I would keep your nose out of other people's business."

Of _course_. Sherlock could have kicked himself for not realising it sooner - but then he had been very distracted all day, ever since John Watson had smiled at him and called him amazing...

"Really Sherlock, are you drifting off already?" The amusement in Mycroft's voice was intolerable, so Sherlock snapped, "Of course not, although your conversation isn't exactly scintillating, so you can't blame me if my mind found itself to be better occupied elsewhere," and hoped that he was right and really was better at deducing than Mycroft because _God forbid_  he should ever know what Sherlock had really been thinking.

"If you can manage to pay attention for just a moment more of your precious time," Mycroft replied, undeterred, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I would like to dissuade you from continuing with that case."

Sherlock took a moment to collect himself; the case that he had stolen from Mycroft's desk just days previously had completely slipped his mind since he had been confronted with a far more confusing problem in the short form of John Watson. Despite this, Sherlock's natural stance was that of opposition to whatever Mycroft might desire - be it cases or cakes - so he easily brushed off Mycroft's words with an equally sarcastic, but hautily dignified, "Well I am _terribly_  sorry to disappoint your majesty, but I am disinclined to acquiesce to your request."

Mycroft let out a short breath of frustrated laughter, "You did always want to be a pirate didn't you, Barbossa. But enough _playing_ , little brother, this isn't a game and I absolutely forbid you to continue working on that case. It's far too dangerous."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft in wide eyed outrage; how _dare_ he suggest that Sherlock was somehow incompetent and not cabeable of solving this case. He was sure that Mycroft only wanted the glory for himself; this was some sort of stupid power play because Mycroft was absurdly driven by ambition, a trait that Sherlock turned his nose up at, revelling in the chance to feel superior to his older brother.

"Of course it's a _game_ , Mycroft, aren't you always saying it's chess?" But Mycroft just sighed, and for a second he allowed the pain of trying to raise an unruly brother who _hated_  him to show in his stone-blue eyes, but Sherlock didn't see, Sherlock _couldn't_ see, couldn't be allowed to feel the hurt; so Mycroft turned away and let his only brother think that he didn't care.

***

The next day, after drinking far too much black coffee for breakfast and dodging Mycroft's glares by leaving slightly earlier for school than he was accustomed to, Sherlock was picking up several books from his locker so that he could kill time by reading in the library - he decided that he might as well research the case, if only to rub it in Mycroft's obnoxious face.

Upon reaching his locker, however, Sherlock was surprised to see that a folded piece of paper had been taped onto the front. Frowning, Sherlock approached the locker warily, supposing that this was another practical joke at his expense by those _idiots_  who liked to bait him on a regular basis.

When no laughing crowd of teenage airheads appeared to infuriate him, Sherlock's frown deepened and he walked right up to the note and stood there, not touching it but scanning the paper so rapidly that his eyes appeared blurred as they darted back and forth, his incredible mind fine-tuned to every slightest detail.

**_Sherlock Holmes._ **

It was quality writing paper, thick and luxurious, the kind only found in the expensive desks of beaurocrats, and the ink was black and slightly smudged at the end - one of those fountain pens, used by someone right handed, and written at speed.

This much Sherlock could tell from looking at the note, but all of these were practicalities that were important but meant very little until added up with the message that would be revealed inside.

With a slight feeling of trepidation; after all, Sherlock was not accustomed to recieving notes and this was most likely not a pleasant one, mixed with the adrenaline rush of a new mystery to solve, he carefully peeled the note off his locker and opened it elegantly, turning it in his long fingers.

**_Not Mrs Moore_.**

Well, what was that supposed to mean? Sherlock hated nothing more than an illogical mystery. _Mrs Moore_. He scanned his mind palace, closing his eyes for better concentration, searching for a meaning.

Nothing.

Sherlock was shocked; his mind palace had failed him, he simply did not know who this Mrs Moore was or what was not her. That put him in just about the worst mood possible, and he angrily shoved the note into his bag, resolving to work out this puzzle if it was the last thing he ever did!

Sherlock Holmes was, at heart, a drama queen after all.

He was so frustrated that when he turned and marched down the corridor in a full Sherlockian sulk, he was paying far less attention to his surroundings than usual, or he would have instantly recognised the profile of the only other student in school at this time in the morning, also making his way to the library.

John was displaying the classic signs of someone who doesn't want to be seen; walking quickly, with broad shoulders hunched slightly and clasping a large book to his chest, as if to hide it from view. Sherlock noticed none of this. In fact, he was feeling so thoroughly out of sorts, what with the John problem, as he was calling it, and a midnight encounter with Mycroft that would have put anyone in a bad mood, and now this incredibly annoying, nonsensical note, that when he pushed past the lonely figure at the doors to the library, he didn't realise who it was until it was too late.

And then he froze.

John had stumbled away from him, panic at being seen turning to hurt clouding his clear blue eyes as he recognised his assailant.

"Oh-" Sherlock gasped as he realised who he had nearly sent flying, his limbs suddenly remembering how to move as he automatically reached out and grasped John's shoulders to steady him. John looked up at Sherlock in shock,still mingled with the hurt that Sherlock wanted never to see on his features again, hating himself for putting it there in the first place.

"I- oh god, sorry John..." Why did Sherlock always find himself muttering inadequate apologies to John? What was it about this mysterious boy that somehow short-circuited Sherlock's brain and left him gasping awkwardly, trying desperately to rectify the last stupid mistake on his part?

John blinked at him and his expression softened, to Sherlock's great relief, the ghost of a smile starting to sculpt his features as he said gently: "That's ok. You seemed to be in a world of your own just then. I'm sorry for interrupting."

Sherlock just gaped at him; the impossible puzzle of John had surprised him yet again. He was _apologising_ to Sherlock, who had just practically knocked him over and who was now holding him lightly by the shoulders.

Sherlock's heart fluttered ridiculously; he had suddenly become aware that he was _holding John's shoulders,_ he could feel John's muscles relaxing as he smiled at him, and suddenly there was not enough oxygen in the room.

Sherlock met John's eyes and what air was left somehow defied the laws of science and became electrically charged. In a small part of Sherlock's mind he registered that this was a unique phenomenon and probably of great scientific importance, but that was immediately stifled by the great wave of blank _desire_ that rose up past his rapidly expanding heart that had somehow migrated to his throat, erasing every other thought in his mind and filling it all with John, _John_.

John who was looking at him with something Sherlock couldn't read in his eyes, since his mind had been rather effectively shut down by this short footballer with the ruffled sandy hair that he desperately wanted to smooth...

"Hey, you're off again." John was speaking to him with a smile in his voice, and there he was, grinning up at Sherlock as if he didn't know that his beautifully crooked smile was causing Sherlock's internal organs to melt.

"Come back to the world, Sherlock."

And Sherlock blinked at John in the sudden realisation that he had found the most perfect being on this earth, and he was filled with the desperate need to preserve this smiling John Watson who was not angry at Sherlock's sudden withdrawals into his mind, but instead gently reminded him that there was a world worth returning to.

So Sherlock tried to bury the confusingly complicated feelings that were making him want to stroke John's cheek, see what his head felt like resting against John's chest, chart every precious breath because it came from John Watson's lips...

_Stop._  That's exactly what he couldn't do; he couldn't jeopardise this tentative alliance for anything. Steeling himself, and doing his best to mirror John's trusting smile, Sherlock gestured towards the seats in the far section of the library and began to explain his forbidden case, infinitely more interesting now that John was here nodding and looking impressed, the annoying note pushed to the back of his mind.

 

He couldn't remember ever being happier.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is surprised out of the tedium of Sunday afternoons by a surprise visit, leading to Holmes and Watson's first crime scene together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My greatest apologies again for how long this has taken me to post. Thank you all for your patience and for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy my attempt at a case worthy of Sherlock Holmes! As usual though, there's more than meets the eye... and a sneaky hint of Mystrade for you to devour.

John found that he actually really enjoyed working with Sherlock. In fact, he couldn't imagine a more perfect study partner. Even taking into account the massive ego he now had to compete with, John was glad to have made friends so quickly; if you would call this hesitant trust friendship - John listening raptly to whatever Sherlock deduced about the various pieces of evidence that he had somehow managed to acquire. 

John suspected that not all of these methods were strictly legal, but the bright enthusiasm of new knowledge lit up Sherlock's sculpted features, turning them from marble to warm flesh, and John couldn't bear to cast aspersions on the source of such rare beauty. 

Because that's what it was - beauty, in an almost artistic sense. John had never seen anything that had taken his breath away in quite the same way as Sherlock Holmes did when he made another miraculous observation; it lent a strange beauty to his iridescent eyes that captivated John completely.

John knew Sherlock by reputation, of course, and he knew that Sherlock would probably soon grow tired of his far less intelligent companion, but he couldn't help but feel incredibly honoured to have this insight into what Sherlock Holmes was really like. The danger, and John feared that this had already begun to happen, was that he might start to think of Sherlock more amiably than Sherlock viewed him. 

John smiled. He was being ridiculous - never mind being amiable, he had been _enchanted_ by that smile the first time he saw it and he thought that this whatever-it-was that he and Sherlock had begun to share, in passing smiles in the corridors or nods across class, might possibly be the best thing that had ever happened to him.

John didn't have many close friends; sure, he had his team, but with the exhausting facade that he had to maintain John had found it difficult to bond with any of them in the way that he had with Sherlock in these past weeks.

John started and backtracked through his thoughts in surprise. _Weeks_. It had been two weeks since their first meeting and he wasn't sure when he had settled into a routine that featured Sherlock as the highlight, but the time had flown by between football practice, studying for the science award with Sherlock, sneaking into the library before school to work on Sherlock's case - because apparantly that's what Sherlock did in his spare time - and the nagging worry that prom was drawing closer and, his stomach did an uncomfortable flip, that meant he would have to ask someone soon. 

John's life had suddenly become extremely busy.

Strangely, John reflected, despite all of this he was actually happy; he had found - much to his own and, he suspected, Sherlock's surprise - that he thoroughly enjoyed crime solving. 

It was the one thing that he had in no way expected to be part of working on a science competition with Sherlock, but that just showed how woefully wrong his prior judgements of Sherlock had been, as Sherlock and crime-solving were apparantly synonymous with each other.

The case that Sherlock was currently working on, and had - reluctanly at first - allowed a very excited John to help with, seemed to John to have no discernable meaning that could lead to an arrest. Because, yes, that was what Sherlock's genius mind did; he was actually assisting the police in an investigation. At _sixteen._

Fair enough, the police didn't actually know that Sherlock was helping them this time, as - from what John could work out thanks to Sherlock's grunts in answer to his queries - it seemed that Sherlock had taken the case files from his older brother's desk.

Goodness knows what all the files for a prominent police investigation were doing on the desk of a 23 year old; John would have assumed that Mycroft Holmes worked for the police if it weren't for Sherlock's loud and sarcastic laugh of ridicule at this suggestion. Well, it hadn't been _that_ unlikely an assumption, John thought belligerently. 

Thinking back, John grinned as he realised how much more common Sherlock's smiles had become, although they were still sometimes hesitant - as if he was afraid to let John see him, which John hated. 

But John didn't want to dwell on that, instead letting his mind wander happily as he lazed through a Sunday afternoon, until his peace was suddenly shattered by an indignantly loud ring of the doorbell. Groaning, John loped over to his window and peered down to see who it could possibly be. Little did he expect a timely visit from Sherlock, of all people. 

He had been given absolutely no warning, and in fact John wasn't sure that he had ever mentioned his address to Sherlock, but he couldn't deny that he was delighted to have an excuse to escape his stuffy house and was positively elated when he saw the tall figure impatiently tapping a foot on his top step. 

Sherlock had come to rescue him like a hero from a adventure novel, though John instantly shook that insane comparason from his mind. He ran downstairs in a mad rush, half fearing that Sherlock might turn and leave if he didn't catch hold of him, and flung open the shabby front door with gusto.

"Sherlock!" he panted, with what he was sure was a quite ridiculous smile spread across his face. 

Looking bored with the entire situation - although admittedly that was nothing new - Sherlock said something offhand about needing someone to take notes for a case, and John followed him without a backward glance.

After hailing a taxi with what John considered to be unnatural and completely unfair ease, Sherlock directed them to a small grey house in the London suburbs, worryingly close to where John lived considering that it was a crime scene.

"Behind me, John." 

Sherlock's voice contained something John had never heard before, something that he didn't want to argue with, but in spite of an increasing apprehension about what exactly he had got himself into, John shook his head stubbornly and stepped up next to Sherlock. He wasn't sure what he was trying to prove, but John knew that he was here to be an equal part of their unique team, and he was certainly not going to back away from any danger.

Sherlock looked at him in blank shock, erasing all the thought paths that John could usually track as they flitted across his face and making him suddenly seem much younger than his sixteen years, causing something in John to snap as he felt his heart expand to fill his chest until it hurt.

For a moment John looked up into Sherlock's face, unable to draw breath past the tightness in his chest; but then he felt something tap his hand, brushing gently past his fingers, and he looked down just in time to see the edge of Sherlock's dark sleeve disappear as he lifted his hand from John's to knock at the door.

John had scarcely enough time to coax his face into something that resembled a normal expression, when the door was opened forcefully by a harried looking man whose quick eyes darted from where they had rested on Sherlock with a sort of resigned recognition, to look at John with obvious annoyance tempered with confusion.

Completely thrown by his momentary contact with Sherlock's hand and now the scrutiny of a somewhat hostile adult, John could only swallow drily, blinking rapidly and hoping that Sherlock could rescue him once more.

"Lestrade." Sherlock drawled easily, "this is John Watson, and can we come inside now? All this dithering on the doorstep is frankly unprofessional."

Mr Lestrade looked as if he would have dearly loved to protest, but to John's amazement he simply gave a small shrug as if he was used to Sherlock's contrary behaviour and put up with it in the fond exasperation of a parent.

"Through here then, although I can't imagine how you know about this, Sherlock." The man's voice tilted in question as he ushered them into a rather gloomy corridor, but Sherlock supremely ignored him. Whilst the young detective swept past his guiding hand, he turned to John with a raised eyebrow, obviously extending the question. 

Slightly nervously John began to try and justify their sudden appearance, hearing the plea in his own voice as he stumbled over the words.

"Um, we just- Well, we got it from his brother actually." 

He thought he saw a slight flush rising in Mr - no, he was probably a Detective Inspector judging by his authority - Lestrade's cheeks, and as he turned away John saw that his ears were bright red under his crop of short blonde hair.

Puzzled, John turned to Sherlock for guidance, and to his surprise he was met with an annoyed frown. Now doubly confused at such reactions to his innocent statement, John was just about to apologise to Sherlock for whatever he had unwittingly done, when he was interrupted.

"Don't mention Mycroft to him, John. Honestly, can't you _see_?"

John's utter bewilderment at Sherlock's unnecessarily vague statement must have shown in his frown, because Sherlock reluctantly elaborated.

"You can't talk about my _brother_ ," he grimaced as if it pained him to admit to this relation, "to Lestrade because he _blatantly_ fancies him. The deluded fool."

Sherlock looked like he was sucking lemons as he spat out this revelation, his distaste only too clear. John dutifully checked to see that poor Lestrade was out of earshot, but then he couldn't hold it in any longer and laughter bubbled over, his mirth only increasing when Sherlock's sourness softened into an adorably confused frown.

"Lestrade _fancies_  him!" John snorted, mocking Sherlock's tone and choosing to ignore the flutter of his stomach as he realised how adorable Sherlock was when he wasn't so far ahead of the game for once. "What are they, teenage schoolgirls?"

And then, perhaps because of the elation of being on a case with Sherlock, or perhaps it had something to do with the chaste brush of fingertips on the step, John's restraint completely broke and he dissolved into giggles once again, leaning against the peeling wallpaper for support. 

He glanced up at Sherlock but, carching his eye, the giggles proved to be contagious and the stern dark head bobbed backward in laughter.

John had never seen Sherlock like this, he doubted if anyone had before, and for a split second he wondered if he could be dreaming; this was following the path of many of his recent nighttime wanderings. But then John smiled as he felt the solid, very real, weight of Sherlock collapse against the wall next to him, and his momentary uncertainty was forgotten.

Sherlock turned to him, their heads now resting parallel, and the laughter died on John's lips as his breath caught under Sherlock's gaze. He could have sworn Sherlock's eyes slid from his own and lingered for a moment on his slightly open mouth, but before the moment could solidify Sherlock had let out another breath of laughter and leaned away from John to follow Lestrade into the dark room across the hall. 

John felt the rush of air fill the space that Sherlock had just vacated, vacuuming all the oxygen from his lungs with it, and his side bemoaned the comforting warm pressure even as he shook his head to try and clear those ridiculous thoughts. 

John dragged himself after Sherlock, thoroughly annoyed with himself; Sherlock most certainly would never allow his heart to rule his head, so why on earth was he feeling so _lost_ without Sherlock by his side?

"John where are you- Oh."

John tilted his head at the self-proclaimed detective; it seemed that Sherlock was not so collected after all. For some reason this pricked the balloon that had been swelling between John's ribs and spilled golden warmth throughout his chest, a smile beginning to form as he reached Sherlock's side and felt the other boy relax at his presence. 

Sherlock gave an infinitesimal nod in John's direction to recognise his arrival and John felt his heart hiccup in response, while Sherlock turned to Lestrade with a frown.

"You've moved the body." Sherlock spole with petulance, as if he were a child and someone had taken his sweets away, not a _dead body_ for God's sake. Sometimes John worried about this boy's twisted ideas about morality.

"Sherlock, he was killed two weeks ago, we couldn't possibly keep a body at the scene for that long," Lestrade explained with remarkable patience.

John swallowed as the truth that someone had died hit him with force. Here, in this dank room that smelt slightly of mould, a living, breathing person had ceased to exist. Or rather, the person had continued in the photographs of a cold, stiff body; it was the life that had been snuffed out, and John felt strangely mournful for the loss of a stranger.

He turned to Sherlock, half hoping that he would see his horror reflected on the other boy's face, but Sherlock was pouring over the photographs that Lestrade had produced with obvious delight. Shuddering slightly, John reminded himself that they were not here to save a life - that was beyond anyone now - but to solve the crime so that this would not happen again. He thought of his younger sister at home, only a few streets away, and focused on the photographs with determination. He would help Sherlock solve this, whatever it took.

"John, just lie down there for a moment," Sherlock gestured at the spot marked out on the floor with police tape, "I need to see what the body would have looked like."

John was unsure whether Sherlock was joking at first, but when he looked up at his earnestly expectant face he steeled himself and lowered carefully to the floor.

Which was far too cold to be comfortable in contrast to the warmth outside, cold enough that John wandered wryly whether the poor victim could have died from the sheer chill of these infernal tiles. If Sherlock didn't hurry up they would have another death to deal with.

"Sherlock?" John impatiently tried to draw attention back to himself - he was becoming aware of how awkward he looked, sprawled on the floor with Scotland Yard standing around watching, and would quite like to stand up. 

Sherlock blinked as if he had only just remembered that John was there, in spite of having only just spoken to him. John watched in anticipation as Sherlock studied the photographs in his hand and then dropped onto one knee next to him, his arms outstretched to rearrange John's limbs to echo the position of the corpse.

But then Sherlock hesitated, visibly drew back from touching John, and John felt a sliver of ice from the floor pierce his heart. The hurt showed as he gazed at Sherlock with wide blue eyes, because John saw Sherlock's expression soften for a second and he extended his hand once more to touch John's shoulder.

Heat burned from the point of contact, warming the ice slightly, and John had to close his eyes to force himself not to lean into the soft pressure of Sherlock's fingers as they gently guided him onto his side.

When all of John's limbs were arranged to Sherlock's satisfaction he opened his eyes and began to speak, unsure of what he could say but certain that something should be said to break the heavily charged silence, but he was cut off by an imperious shake of Sherlock's coal black curls.

"Where is it then? The gun?"

Sherlock spat out the questions carelessly in Lestrade's general direction, but now John was interested too - the report had said that the gun had been held with two hands, and there was a bullet wound in the corpse's head, but Sherlock maintained that they had not died from being shot. 

"The gun was removed from the scene, but I've got the ballistics report here," Lestrade passed a bundle of papers to Sherlock before continuing. "The gist of which is that two bullets were fired, gun held with two hands, but we only have one wound, and before you can interrupt me Sherlock, yes I see what you mean but we have no _actual evidence_  to suggest that the shot wasn't what killed him."

Sherlock made a dismissive sound in his throat and waved Lestrade away with his own report paper.

"You see, John! They're all idiots, blind to the facts unless they fit in with their narrow vision of what happened!" Sherlock was clearly in his element as he flicked impatiently through the report, smiling as something he read confirmed his suspicions.

"What do you think, John?"

Sherlock paused as he registered that John was not stood next to him, "John? What are you doing down there? I bet the floor is sub-zero with those tiles."

John simply looked at Sherlock in outrage for a moment, but when he got no reaction other than a politely raised eyebrow at his eccentricity, he narrowed his eyes at Sherlock from his position on the floor, and replied accusingly:

" _You_  told me to lie in this position! Something to do with how the corpse lay, I don't know."

"Of course I did, you were just beneath my focus for a minute there. Don't want to take in too much unnecessary data." Perhaps Sherlock caught sight of John's irritation, because he hastily began to pay more attention.

"Hmm let's see then..." Sherlock stepped back to better view the whole scene, hands bracing his head, his eyes scanning so rapidly that they appeared blurred.

Suddenly Sherlock's vision focused and a slow smile began to appear. Without waiting for John to get up, Sherlock strode confidently into the adjoining room where Lestrade and the other inspectors were exchanging theories.

"- so obviously it was a random killer; we have no motive and a murder weapon left at the scene. Hardly seems like anything planned." A young, dark-haired inspector with a sadly lacking goatee was summing up the case with more than a little arrogance at having solved it. John's heart sank as he thought how proud Sherlock would have been to finally solve this puzzle himself, but to his surprise Sherlock was smirking at the unfortunate inspector.

"Do be quiet, Anderson. Your futile attempt at police work is a disgrace to society - of course it wasn't a _random killing._  That gun was left there on purpose. I just need to figure out why..." John's mouth dropped open slightly in amazement; here was Sherlock telling professional crime-solvers that they were wrong, and not only that but actually proving them wrong. He couldn't believe the power of Sherlock's incredible mind now that it was free from the restraints of school.

"So you think the killer _purposefully_  left the murder weapon at the scene of the crime?" Anderson was shaking his head in ridicule, and John was finding it hard to stop himself shutting the man up with a well placed punch to the jaw.

"Dear God, life must be so _difficult_  for you narrow minded people. Haven't you been listening? The murder weapon _was not left at the crime scene._  This man was shot after he died, you can see it clearly from the positioning of his body - he was relaxed with his arms by his side. This clearly indicates that his arms were not raised to defend himself. Doesn't that strike you as odd? How many people have been shot from the front and are totally OK with it? No, he wasn't killed by that bullet, although he was shot very soon after death."

Here, Lestrade opened his mouth to interrupt but Sherlock ploughed on, and John admired his determination.

"That's why you didn't see anything suspicious in the amount of blood released from the wound. If he had been shot hours after death there would be nuch less blood and it would have been clear even to you that he wasn't killed by a bullet, but we are dealing with a professional here - they shot him immediately after death... but _why_?"

John cleared his throat - a question had just occurred to him. "But Sherlock, if he wasn't killed with that gun then how did he die? And why would someone go to the trouble of shooting someone who was already dead?"

He was sure that he sounded like he was completely out of his depth, but John was rewarded for his efforts with a beaming smile from Sherlock.

"Exactly. See? London's best and you are put to shame by John Watson. When you can answer these questions you will have the murderer at your fingertips."

While John glowed, his chest puffing out in pride, Lestrade and a few of the other officers exchanged glances. Clearly Sherlock often dismissed their theories, but John thought he saw something in Lestrade's expression suggesting that Sherlock was usually right.

"It couldn't be... you did say his sister-in-law looked suspicious..." Lestrade was looking at a suspect file on his laptop, and Sherlock pounced on this titbit of information. 

"Who? Who is it? This could be it! The gun being held with two hands would suggest that it was a woman, as she would be statistically less likely to be comfortable with how to hold a gun so she would cradle it in both hands."

John and Sherlock exchanged a smile, John's heart only fluttering slightly; after all, they had been working on this case with steadily increasing anticipation and now they could have found the culprit, which would cause anyone's heart to skip a little John told himself. 

"What's her name, Lestrade? I'll need to talk to her to be sure, but if it all fits..." Sherlock's voice was electric with excitement as he turned to Lestrade expectantly, presenting John with a sculpted profile that he tried unsuccessfully not to stare at.

Lestrade scrolled through files, clicking to bring up the name and contact details of the corpse's sister-in-law.

"A Mrs Angela Moore."

Looking over in the hope of recieving another bright smile, John watched in horror as Sherlock's head jerked back as if he had been punched, all the colour draining from his face. Sherlock's mouth moved but no sound came out and John's mind was whirring, flipping through possibilities each more dramatic than the last.

Had something hurt Sherlock? Was he ill? Having a fit? A seizure maybe? John had braced himself for action and was just about to spring to Sherlock's aid, heart pounding, when Sherlock spoke, hoarsely, as if he didn't quite believe what he was saying.

" _Not Mrs Moore_."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems that I am constantly apologising for posting chapters so far apart, but I do feel guilty (I read fanfics too!) And thank you all so much for reading! Your comments never fail to make me smile.  
> If anyone ever has any ideas, or anything they would like me to read, then I would love to hear from you!  
> (Again, come and say hi if you have tumblr!)  
> I hope you enjoy...

Explaining the note ( _yes_  he had found it on his locker, why else would he say that he had, you simpleton) to Lestrade and the rest of the idiots that somehow constituted a police force took far longer than Sherlock would have liked. To be fair, he would have ideally liked them to instantly read the whole story from his posture and reaction, but he reluctantly conceded that not everyone had his perceptiveness, much to his frequent displeasure.

Didn't they realise how excitingly rare this occurrence was? There they all were, blank faces uncomprehending of the important fact that _someone had known exactly the conclusion he would reach_ , had told him as if they had read his mind from the past, and instead they were distracting him with questions about when he had found it and why he hadn't told anyone. As if they didn't believe he could have read it properly or something.

"Oh  _please_." Sherlock hoped that his disbelief at their stupidity was clear in his voice, "do you honestly think that I would leave out any important details?"

He looked at John for support, hoping that the ignorance in the room had not spread to him, and to his relief John half-shrugged at the policemen with one of his winning smiles that were usually reserved for getting out of trouble with whatever teacher's homework he had forgotten.

"He's right, you know. If it's important then Sherlock will have noticed. You can count on it."

The certainty in John's voice as he stood up for Sherlock startled a brief smile onto his face. No one else had ever backed him up unless he had fairly rammed the truth down their throats, and here was John with his chin tilted as he placed his confidence in Sherlock, daring someone to disagree.

The sight threw Sherlock off balance almost as much as discovering the purpose of that meaningless note, and this was similarly incomprehendable to him. 

But nothing is truly meaningless, Mycroft would say to him, with a smile playing around his mouth as he reveled in Sherlock's mistake; everything has a meaning although _ordinary_ people - here he would look pointedly at Sherlock - sometimes don't realise it. 

Sherlock frowned at the Mycroft that wouldn't even let his mind palace be private, worming his way into thoughts that he had no business with in his typical fashion. He sighed dramatically at the world in general - would he never be free of elder brothers and simpletons? 

And then John turned his smile towards him and all of his thoughts were suddenly enveloped in warm gold, banishing Mycroft from mind. Sherlock's eyes absently followed the movement of John's lips for a moment before he realised that John was actually talking to him and he should probably look like he was listening.

He wasn't certain why it was so important for him not to offend John by tuning out his petty concerns - usually Sherlock didn't care how obnoxious he appeared - but then John was a complete anomaly in so many areas, providing continuous surprises that challenged his proudly impeturbable nature in a way that was somehow endearing.

He'd done it again. Sherlock shook his head slightly to clear it, because John had managed to distract Sherlock from himself simply by being there. What a marvellous paradox. 

"-and although I don't think you're really listening to me," Sherlock cursed inwardly; John's voice was tinged with the annoyance that had given him a reputation at school for a quick temper. It was strange that Sherlock had never faced the brunt of this before now, considering how frustrating everyone else seemed to find him. 

He braced himself for John's anger, annoyed at himself for causing this interruption into their otherwise smooth companionship, but when John spoke again his voice, though slightly pointed, still held captive the glowing smile, and Sherlock's heart buoyed upwards in relief. 

"I for one would like to know what _you_ think about it. What are we going to do next?" Sherlock's heart gave another alarming leap until it seemed to sit uncomfortably jostling his voice box. That was the only explanation for the squeak in his normally smooth voice when he replied, but Sherlock couldn't stop hearing John refer to them as a pair. _We_. Of course John could have been referring to the mixed group of police as well, but he had been looking up directly at Sherlock and he must be able to read people because that was exactly what Sherlock was longing to be asked.

" _I_ think that-" Sherlock coughed hastily, trying to level his voice before John noticed anything, because John _couldn't_  notice this, of that at least Sherlock was certain.

"It's clear that the first course of action is to find out what did kill this man, since we have established that it wasn't the gun, and our lead on the culprit is obviously incorrect."

Sherlock strode over to the policewoman who was now bending over the laptop and held out his hand, clicking his fingers impatiently, "I'll need all the notes on the state of the body when it was found, the post mortem report, and you can call me when you have arranged for me to visit the morgue to examine the body properly." This last request was addressed at Lestrade, who was hovering uncertainly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes when he saw the Inspector, because he hadn't got over this ridiculous scruple yet and it slowed down every case.

"Tedious, Lestrade. Stop thinking that. It's annoying." Lestrade's eyes widened fractionally but he persisted in conforming to the boring adult stereotype and delayed Sherlock with the usual irrelevant worries about his age and school and generally _I don't want to be responsible for a sociopathic sixteen year old_. Sherlock missed a beat.

_Two_ sixteen year olds. That was new. He'd have to catalogue that later.

Eventually, just as Sherlock was contemplating the many ways in which he could murder Lestrade - now Mycroft, he had the key to his house, Sherlock could easily creep in and asphyxiate him, but Lestrade was so laughably vulnerable it was surprising no one else had given in to temptation yet - John rescued him with a well-placed interruption.

"How about we compromise? I've theoretically got revision to do before tomorrow, so I should be getting home, but I'm not going until you promise to email Sherlock all the files he needs and we'll look at them after school." He glanced at Sherlock, and there was a slight hint of uncertainty in the tilt of his head, so Sherlock nodded, in what he considered a reassuring manner. Of course he would stay with John after school and study the case. He couldn't wait, and his internal clock was already counting down, but none of this could be allowed to show so Sherlock cheerfully grumbled to Lestrade about not needing revision and the ridiculousness of school, turning only once to catch John's relieved smile out of the corner of his eye.

Lestrade was looking at John with blatent admiration; Sherlock couldn't imagine why - it's not as if he was ever difficult for Lestrade. John must have worked some sort of magic because Lestrade broke his tradition of hours of persuading to get the tiniest bit of information, and Sherlock watched in astonishment as Lestrade attached files to an email and pushed over the laptop for him to type in his email address, before turning to John.

"Can I have your phone number? I've got Sherlock's but I have a feeling that you are going to be a part of this investigation," Sherlock was pleased to note that Lestrade didn't look as displeased at this as he had anticipated, if anything he was exasperated but he would be civil to John, and that's what mattered, "so I'm sure I'll need it at some point, if only for someone to text when _he_  doesn't reply and we're considering sending in special forces to intervene." John laughed companionably, and Sherlock frowned at his exclusion, though he should be used to it by now.

"Ok, here you are." John's fingers tapped over the screen of Lestrade's phone, while Sherlock sank into his isolation - he knew that this would be happen, but it was sooner than he would like. Sentiment again, but who was he kidding? He _never_  wanted John to get bored and leave him, but clearly he was already preferring Lestrade's company. 

Sherlock sighed, and at the slight sound John looked away from Lestrade and the phone in his hand. 

"Hey, what's wrong Sherlock?" John's mouth curved upwards fascinatingly, and the fact that he cared at all suddenly meant that Sherlock was not alone.

The pleasure he felt at this simple query made Sherlock frown in confusion. Here he was, the notoriously friendless Holmes, whose happiness had suddenly been proved to depend on someone else. And to Sherlock that was more terrifying than any heinous crime could possibly be, but he couldn't allow it to register on his features so he levelled his gaze at John and nodded vaguely in answer to a question that meant so much more to him than John could know.

This inadequate response seemed to satisfy John, and with a brusque farewell to Lestrade, Sherlock allowed himself to be propelled back through the house and out of the door, all the while muttering dire threats as to what injuries the police force would suffer if they didn't call him the _moment_ anything else happened.

Once they were outside, the cooling evening air felt so nice as it tumbled through his curls that Sherlock stood for a moment and breathed in the smell of evening London. What most people don't realise is that London has a different scent as well as an altered atmosphere when all the bustle of the day has given way to the hushed hurry to return home, like rain on hot ground it smells of the relief after the storm, and the anticipation of the nightlife like a drop of alcohol on the breeze or bitter cigarrettes on the tip of your toungue, ready to taste the adventure of a nocturnal city. That's what Sherlock loved about London, why he didn't care when Mycroft had insisted on that ridiculous school as long as they were on the outskirts of England's most magnificent city, where there was so much stimuli for his senses to interpret.

Tonight was different though. Tonight, the hint of tobacco was scented with something new, something equally addictive that Sherlock couldn't quite put a name to, until John shifted beside him and suddenly it was overwhelming all of his senses at once. 

He looked at the sandy-haired head in amazement, turning so that he could drink in the intoxication that was John Watson. Licking his lips gingerly, Sherlock tried to say something, _anything,_  to diffuse this cacophony of feelings, but what could he possibly say? For once his eloquence would not help, as Sherlock's mind couldn't reach the words. Except one.

"John." It was almost a plea, and Sherlock cursed himself for sounding so open, almost vulnerable. That was completely unacceptable, so Sherlock told himself that he was glad when John blinked and turned away, taking the lead for once as he started down the street.

"Any chance you could pull that trick with the taxis again?" John was grinning at him over his shoulder from a few paces away, and Sherlock quickly closed the distance on his longer legs with a pang of regret, although he really was thankful that John had not noticed anything.

They started walking to the street corner in comfortable silence, and set off home after a muttered, but none the less heated, argument about who would pay the taxi (Sherlock didn't care about such things and would have just thrown a note over his shoulder but John was being ridiculously chivalrous and wanted to pay, despite Sherlock _telling_ him that he had hardly any money in his pocket and so it made logical sense for him to let Sherlock pay. That actually made John more cross, for some incomprehensible reason; Sherlock had only stated the obvious, there had been no need for John to overreact like that.)

At the door of John's house the easy bickering of the taxi journey that Sherlock had secretly loved fizzle out, leaving Sherlock awkwardly standing, all pointed angles of limbs unwilling to let John go but unsure of what he should do. 

Did friends hug? Shake hands? Is that what they were now - friends? The thought sent his mind spiralling into panic mode, but Sherlock was interrupted by a slightly uncertain cough from John.

"Um. So. I just wanted to say. Well, thank you so much - this has been amazing, really amazing!" In a rush of misplaced gratitude John's inhibitions faded and he slapped Sherlock's back in the same way that Sherlock had observed him greet his friends. The comparason, instead of insulting him as it would have done a month previously, made Sherlock smile faintly at the figure now bounding up the steps to his front door.

"Bye, then. See you tomorrow!" John sent a last flash of teeth past the open door, and Sherlock stood, watching the halogen glow backlight John's silhouette as he disappeared into his home, and his words drifted away on the evening breeze.

"See you tomorrow."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive apologies for how long it has taken for me to update this - this first term has been insanely busy, but that's no excuse. I am so greatful to every single one of you for reading this, and especially to those who leave comments and kudos - you make my day so thank you! I really am sorry for the amount of time I have made you wait, but I will try and post the next installment very soon :)
> 
> For those of you who don't want to go back over the story but need a reminder, here's a mini synopsis:  
> Sherlock and John are doing preparation for a science competition together, which (and John's not quite sure how it happened) has turned into the solving of a murder case. Sherlock appears unannounced at John's house on a lazy Sunday and whisks him off to a crime scene, where a body had been found shot through the heart - although Sherlock is convinced the shot didn't kill him - and DI Lestrade promises to email Sherlock the photographs and report so he can examine the body properly...

"Watson. Kindly repeat what I just told the class, as for _some_  reason I fear that it may have escaped your notice." John groaned and blinked himself out of a happy daydream in which he was blissfully reliving the previous day - featuring rather prominently the moment when, for a split second, Sherlock's eyes had met his own and he had said his name in such a voice that John had half-dared to hope for something infinitely more beautiful to follow.

But he had cowered away from the terrifying idea that couldn't possibly be forming at the back of his mind because Sherlock was, well, _Sherlock_ and it would never do for John's head to allow his heart to forget that.

"I- um, well what you were saying Sir, was... was that..." John looked wildly around his cramped form room, scanning faces, hoping for a clue as to what Mr Woodson could have chosen to enlighten the world with today. John's form tutor and physics teacher, Woodson was a formiddable ex-serviceman who loved the sound of his own voice, and far too often he decided to share his strong views with the class. The majority of the room had probably been asleep for the last ten minutes, so it was just John's luck to be singled out on today of all days, when his mind was buzzing with _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock_  and all he wanted to do was run down to the lab where they had agreed to meet after school.

"I didn't think so, Watson. See me at the end of form, and I'll hear all about what was so interesting." The deep creases between Woodson's eyes furrowed in John's direction, as John attempted to hide his disappointment. Now he would be late for his meeting with Sherlock, and perhaps the other boy would get bored and leave to solve the case without him, or perhaps - John's heart clenched painfully - Sherlock would be so angry at him that he wouldn't want John's help any more, wouldn't want to be his partner, wouldn't accept if he asked him... 

John shook himself mentally. Now was not the time to pay attention to half-formed wistful thoughts that would never come to pass anyway. Wishing he had a mind like Sherlock's so that he could file away feelings and concentrate on reality, John tilted his head in what he thought was an admirable show of deference to old Woodson. 

"Well, perhaps you will listen now when I reiterate that Prom, at this prestigious school, is not an opportunity for you to _frolic_  or let your hair down," Woodson grimaced as if the very idea of letting his hair down - impossible unless metaphorically; he was as shiningly bald as an egg - was completely repulsive to him. 

"In fact, I expect every single one of you to be on your best behaviour and will personally ensure that _all_ the school traditions are fulfilled." Here he glowered pointedly at John, but John was oblivious again, although his mind was less pleasantly occupied. He knew exactly what Woodson was alluding to, and this knowledge had trickled coldly down his spine and solidified with a metallic clunk somewhere near his belly button.

_Dates are required for attendance._

It was the oldest of the school's more conservative traditions, in theory harking back to an era of ballgowns and bowties that in John's opinion should have long since passed, and in reality causing him to lose far more sleep than he could afford, this close to his exams.

Judging by the giggles and raised eyebrows from the group of girls massing in the far corner, John's fellow students had also worked out today's theme for Woodson-enduced enlightenment, and were eargerly pairing up everything with a pulse.

"I am sure that those of you in prominent positions, members of sports teams for example, will not disgrace themselves and the school by failing to attain a date," Woodson continued relentlessly, a cruel glint in his eye as he loomed over John's desk. He'd never liked that John, only at this selective school thanks to a lucky scholarship, had succeeded in making the exclusive football team where his own son had failed.

Irrational anger welled up inside John, the sudden roaring in his ears drowning out the heckling of his friends, most of whom had already 'attained' dates. What ridiculous phrasing. John couldn't help resenting the use of such possessive language; a date was not a product to be bought, for goodness sake, and whose right was it to demand he take some frilly-skirted girl to a dance that would quickly become as sickly as her glossed candyfloss lips, destroying the idea of anything like romance.

John felt his fear shirk behind his anger, using it as a shield behind which he could hide the two halves of his life that were seemingly intent on destroying one another, and himself in the process. He didn't want to invite any of the hysterical girls in his form, but then again he might as well pick one blindly because he couldn't let himself consider who he'd _really_  like to take, gorgeous though he'd look with a well-cut suit accentuating his slim frame, chameleon eyes reflecting the school's ballroom back at John in a kaleidoscope of perfection. 

Even as he smiled at the thought, John blinked himself out of his fond daydream, because that's all it would ever be and he should really stop this stupidity before it ruined everything that was currently hanging in balance by a single thread of his control.

"Who're you going with then?" John's friend Mike Stanford, and - his heart sank even further - the more threatening George Street, were leaning backwards, twisting to look at him from the desk in front. Stanford was smiling far too knowingly for John's liking; he'd known him for ages, as they had been friends at primary school before losing contact only to meet again at this infernal school, so if anyone was going to pick up on his current turmoil it would be Stanford. Next to him, George Street leered at John in a way that made his skin crawl and his mind race to find a solution.

Playing it as cool as he dared, John dredged up a smile that was only slightly strained and admitted casually, "I haven't asked anyone yet mate, give a guy a chance."

Stanford snorted, and John's heart began to thump desperately, wishing more than anything just to be able to leave, and then his blood ran cold as Street smirked at him, laughing slightly as he teased, "Hurry up then, or it'll only be you and that freak left without dates!"

John could feel his nails cutting crescents into his palms, could hear his own unsteady breaths, uncannily loud in his ringing ears.

The room around him suddenly vanished, and John's world flashed into a blinding pinpoint focus. Fists clenched in hopeless anger, he rounded on the cackling boys.

"Don't call him that."

_Don't ever call him that again._

"I- you don't know him."

_But I do, I know him and he's become all at once the most important person in my life._

The cruel laughter continued.

"Seriously, guys, stop it now."

John's voice shook slightly, all the breath gone from him as if he'd been punched in the stomach. 

The other boys looked at him in amazement, and John felt sick as he saw how much he had surprised them by not joining in.

"What's up with you then?" Street frowned at John, and John thanked a deity he didn't believe in that Sherlock's powers of deduction were so out of the ordinary. He was only barely keeping a lid on his anger, and he was sure that the reason was clearly written across his face, if anyone cared to notice.

Stuttering the beginnings of an explanation as yet unknown to him, John was saved - quite literally - by the bell. In the crush to leave the classroom, John was swept gratefully away from his friends and he drifted into the corner of the classroom where a door led to one of those backless cupboards that always line classrooms; full of old books and bouquets of sharpened pencils. Hoping to avoid reminding Woodson of his threat by turning his face from his hawkish gaze, John looked idly through the dirty plastic window into the cupboard, and was given the shock of his life when he met a pair of opaline eyes staring back at him.

"Sherlock!" He hissed frantically at the eyes glowing out of the blackness, mind reeling. What on earth was Sherlock doing, lurking like a bat in the dusty cupboard in his form room? He frowned at the pair of eyes that haunted his thoughts and now wouldn't even leave him be in reality. And did this mean - John felt his own eyes widen at the realisation - that Sherlock had heard the cruel teasing that had just taken place?

Suddenly the room was too hot, and John was aware of his heart thumping traitorously fast again as his chest tightened, but he focussed determinedly on the two eyes that - wait, they were now narrowing at _him_  as if somehow _he_  was the one who was interrupting Sherlock! John shook his head in amazement at the self-absorbed boy, only separated from him by the sliding wooden door, who may as well be a million miles away for all he had noticed about the absurdity of his current position. 

"What are you _doing_ in there?" 

John wasn't sure whether Sherlock had heard the exasperated mutter, but he watched his eyes roll upwards in classic Sherlockian frustration at the ignorance of this foolish world. John could almost hear the sigh - a huff of warm breath in annoyance that was not so profound as its owner would like to believe.

"John Watson. How kind of you to stay." The sarcastic voice of Woodson made John jump, and he tore himself away from the eyes that had widened in warning to firmly put his back to the cupboard, blocking the inside from Woodson's view.

"Um, yes. Sorry about that, Sir. I don't know what came over me." John tried his most honest-I'm-a-model-student smile, shrugging for emphasis. Woodson seemed reluctant to drop the matter, and dubious about the sincerity of John's apology, but he gave John an extended version of a teacher's favourite speech: _it's all for your own good_.

"...and really, Watson, I would have thought you would be very keen for this opportunity to put to good use your football fame," John knew he was still bitter about him getting a spot on the team, "and you even get a girl out of it. What's not to love, eh?"

John barely repressed his shudder of repulsion that this disgusting man was attempting to be friendly and talk to him as a fellow misogynistic bully. His embarrassment intensified as he remembered who was standing, the bow of his lips pursed in silence, just feet behind him - although why exactly he would care what Sherlock heard was something that John didn't even want to think about examining right now. Hopefully, if he ignored them long enough those persistent thoughts that hovered constantly just out of reach, too far away for John to quite understand, would flit away and annoy someone else.

"That's all then Watson, I've got a meeting to go to - whatever teams you're in, it doesn't make you more important." And with that, Woodson marched from the room, glaring at John as if he had been purposefully delaying him. John shook his head as the door slammed angrily; some people he would never understand. He ran a weary hand through his hair - John had been so looking forward to this afternoon, trust Sherlock to confuse everything completely - and then turned in surprise at the sudden clatter from behind him.

The sight that greeted him was worth every second of frustration at Sherlock's inability to function normally. Sherlock was attempting to extract himself from a cascade of pencil shavings that he had somehow managed to knock from some anchient stash, but as he brushed the brown dust from his curls, a lanky elbow struck the side of one of the shelves, sending discarded text books fluttering to his his feet. By this point, Sherlock was frowning in an adorably ridiculous manner at the stationary that had created a sizeable pile around his shoes, and John was laughing helplessly.

" _What?_ " Sherlock made a spectacular attempt at catching a huge stack of exercise books that another unruly limb had sent flying. His failure only served to add to John's amusement.

"Shut up." The teenage detective snapped at John, the haughty effect ruined slightly by the hand splayed against the tottering stack of paper to his left. John smiled at him innocently.

" _Jo-ohn_ , I didn't- oh!" Sherlock's admonishment was interrupted by a gasp as he took a step towards John, only to trip over one of the bigger text books, forcing the usually graceful figure to twirl around, sending his blazer swirling out in a way that was unfairly dramatic, before taking a decidedly clumsy, staggering step in John's direction and somehow ending up with his arms on John's and his whole weight leaning into him. John drew breath sharply through his teeth and took a hasty step backwards, but Sherlock's hands remained on his arms, as if he was steadying himself instead of sending John into overdrive. 

John could feel Sherlock's breath on his face, quickened in surprise. He licked his lips, subconsciously echoing Sherlock and leaning up to better match the height of their faces, but then Sherlock coughed, a faint rose tinge beginning to creep up his cheeks, and he finally released John. 

"Sorry I, uh," John was breathless with laughter and the sudden pressure of Sherlock on his arms, but then Sherlock was smiling shyly up at him through dusty lashes and it took a superhuman effort for John to tear his gaze from the quirk of Sherlock's pale pink lips. He mistakenly thought he'd be safer glancing instead into Sherlock's eyes, and what he saw there would have made him pay attention, if only it wasn't _Sherlock_  - who would in no way appreciate such unnecessary thoughts. Sherlock's eyes were serious and somehow far more open than usual - if John had really looked then he would have seen nothing less than Sherlock's heart, stripped bare by his sudden longing for something _else._ But John didn't see; he couldn't let himself see, and so he looked away, grinning as he mimed Sherlock's struggles with the stationary cupboard, and if he felt an ache of regret in his chest then that was ok; he could get used to it. John had resigned himself to the constant emptiness, brushed away and told it was nothing because the other option was impossible to consider. 

Sherlock smiled back at him, adorably lopsided, and John had to concentrate on something else or he would go mad. 

"So are you gonna explain why you were being Dracula back there?" 

"It was for a case, John."

John sighed. Of course, the only infallible excuse available; a case.

"And why did that case involve you being in a cupboard in my form room?" John was interested now, and he wasn't going to let Sherlock off the hook that easily. He fixed the taller boy with a stare that Sherlock managed to avoid, as he swept from the room calling imperiously to John over his shoulder, 

"Come along, we've got a case to solve!"

The excitement in his voice was too much for John to resist, so he followed his detective out of the room - and headfirst into a case.

***

John wasn't sure why Sherlock had halted in the middle of a rant about the stupidity of the police force - John had learned by now to tune these out - as they turned the corner of the corridor where Mrs Hooper's science classroom was, but the haunted expression that flitted across Sherlock's features halted John in his tracks.

"There's another one."

"Another _what?_ What's wrong?" John wished for the hundredth time that Sherlock would one day dignify to explain himself properly.

"It's another note John."

Sherlock sounded almost vulnerable - and decidedly cross at this weakness. John warmed to the fact that this miraculous genius feared the same thing as anyone more ordinary; the unknown that lurks in other people's fear of the dark had manifested itself in Sherlock as a fear of himself not knowing the answer. Taking a deap breath and striding confidently forwards as much to reassure himself as Sherlock, John reached the door and eyed the taped note suspiciously.

"Well it says your name, anyway." There it was, clear to read in the elegantly curling black letters, _**Sherlock Holmes**_.

"Exactly the same as the last one..." Sherlock's voice was becoming stronger as shock rapidly turned to intrigued excitement. John could almost see the cogs whirring inside his extraordinary brain, clicking into place as each detail was catalogued, and he caught himself staring in amazed silence. 

Sherlock stretched out an arm, the sleeve of his blazer riding up to reveal an inch of porcelain skin, and gently pulled the note from the door. It hadn't been stuck down well enough for the expensive-looking paper to tear when Sherlock tugged at the tape that had been used to secure it, and John watched Sherlock frown at the paper, no doubt revealing everything about it and turning over the secrets to himself. John hoped that Sherlock would see fit to share these discoveries with him, although it wouldn't surprise him to be completely ignored whilst Sherlock unravelled the mystery.

"It's _exactly_ the same. No doubt the same author - look at the recognisable curl of the S, John, no one could miss that." John felt the little leap somewhere in his chest when Sherlock included him in the deductions, and chose to ignore the fact that _he_ wouldn't have noticed that. 

"Let's take a look inside..."

With an indulgent smile at John, comfirming his suspicions that this narration was purely for his benefit, Sherlock slid a nail under the seal and opened the note. He held it out wordlessly to John.

**_Ingram ink._ **

"There it is again! Apparently meaningless!" John was bewildered by the contrast of Sherlock's words and his delighted tone, and his confusion must have shown on his face because Sherlock immediately took on that expression which seemed to ask 'how are you so _stupid_ ' - and which John thought he saw all too often.

"John." Sherlock said, with the air of speaking to a stubbornly foolish toddler, "last time the note was incomprehensible until we developed the case further - _now_ we know that it will make sense if we just continue with the case! And hopefully," he looked around, somewhat furtively, "that will give us time to find out who our mysterious note-writer is..."

John grinned, and couldn't help himself as he quipped, "Who's Mr Popular now?" 

Sherlock looked at him, eyebrows raised, completely uncomprehending, and John's neck suddenly felt very warm as he tried to keep up a natural smile. A tense second dragged by.

"Don't worry, it was a rubbish joke... ignore me." John really didn't want to have this conversation with Sherlock.

"No, what did you mean?" Sherlock's interest had obviously been piqued, and John cursed himself for starting this. He gritted his teeth and looked up at the question written across Sherlock's face.

"I- it's just that note... well, from the outside it could look like a - you know- a love letter or something. If you didn't know better. Prom's coming up in a few weeks and some people are looking for dates." John all but winced at his own awkwardness; this was his _friend_ , so why was he behaving like one of the flustered girls he had scoffed at earlier? 

John's voice was dull as he looked away from Sherlock, refusing to see the disgust he knew would be distorting those exquisite features."Like I said, just a stupid joke."

Sherlock cleared his throat. 

"But- why would someone want to go with me?" The gentleness of Sherlock's completely unexpected question startled John into raising his eyes. Sherlock blinked at him, unaware of how terribly sad that simple query was, or how it had made John's heart clench hopelessly. John's mouth opened hesitantly, trying to find the words, but then Sherlock seemed to shake himself back into reality, and noticed with apparant surprise his hand resting on the door where he had been about to push it open. 

John tried, unsuccessfully, to forget about that moment for the rest of the afternoon as it drew leisurely into an evening of shared crime-solving. When Sherlock's eyes flickered over the screen of his laptop, scanning the email from Lestrade, John must have sighed a little because Sherlock whipped around to stare at him, eyes narrowed, and for a second John thought it was all over. Then Sherlock beckoned him closer and started pointing out facts he had learned from the body, and John breathed out a sigh of breath that he hadn't even realised he was holding. 

"Look - there is a clear bullet wound in the chest, straight through the heart," his cold manner made John shiver slightly, but there was an even greater part of him that was fascinated, little though he would have admitted it to anyone. 

"...interesting..." Sherlock was murmering darkly under his breath, his normally deep voice - it had broken spectacularly the year before, although John couldn't say why he had noticed - now gravelly in the back of his throat. John wondered absently what exactly was so interesting, but now he just wanted that voice to continue, regardless of what it was saying.

"There's not enough blood - and where's the other bullet? Yes, he was certainly not killed by that shot - it almost looks dramatic..." Sherlock trailed off and John quoted absentmindedly: "Sometimes the heart sees what is invisible to the eye." He didn't even know where it came from, just that he had spent the last two months looking at it printed across the top of his mum's neglected calendar.

Sherlock just stared at him, strangely vacant, and John mumbled apologies under his breath. He would have to try and remember that Sherlock prided himself in being emotionless, but somehow that prospect made him feel worse. 

"There must be something here..." Sherlock had zoomed in on the police photograph of the body, cold on a slab in the morgue, although why he would want to look closer at the dead man's blankly staring eyes John couldn't fathom. He clicked searchingly, eyes glued to the computer screen, before suddenly -

"That's it!" 

Sherlock's eyes were ablaze, hands gesturing at the computer in such excitement that he was liable to knock something over. John found that he didn't mind very much.

"Look John... no look properly - use your eyes in connection with your _brain_ for goodness sake." John looked away from the screen that he had been obediently searching for a moment to scowl at Sherlock, who looked insufferably pleased with himself.

_God, he's beautiful._

John's frown deepened as he tried to restrain whatever _that_ was.

"Concentrate. Examine the pupils." Well, John was _trying_ to concentrate but somebody - and it was certainly not the young detective sat next to him - kept distracting him. He scanned the photograph in what he knew was a pathetic attempt to immitate Sherlock's overwhelming skill, hoping for a chance to show that he could be intelligent too. The body was bleach white - lips parted in a grimace of death, veins tracing faintly bluish paths around the eyes, in which he could see nothing remarkable, unless you were particularly interested in eyes. Who'd be interested in eyes? His physics book had a whole double page on them - how they work, muscles pulling to make the pupils smaller - _oh._

"Sherlock! It's the pupils! They should be dilated!" John beamed at Sherlock; overjoyed that all of his secretive reading had finally paid off, albeit in a completely different way than he had expected. Sherlock had turned revision for a mere science award into a real-life murder case, and the worrying thing was that John didn't care at all. The only real question now was why those pupils were constricted, and for this John would have to ask Sherlock, having used up his own detective skills for the moment.

"But...why?"

Sherlock's lips quirked upwards in luminous pleasure at being asked a question that he clearly knew the answer to. The show off. 

"Poison. It's quite obvious really - in death all of the body's muscles relax, so why should the ciliary muscles of the eye be any different? The pupil is constricted because the muscles are contracted. There lies our murderer's prime mistake; he should have closed the eyes." Sherlock's voice dropped darkly, and he paused in what John was sure was a purely dramatic manner, sweeping his hands through the air before him as if conducting an invisible orchestra. 

"All of this indicates one thing. The victim was poisoned before being shot. This particular poison is, unfortunately, not that difficult to make - it's a simple mixture of liquid components - as a matter of fact, I've made it myself."

John felt his eyes widen; it seemed that Sherlock would never cease to spring surprises on him, and he wondered whether he would ever become attuned to this, whether the novel would ever wear off. 

Then he blinked, completely caught off guard by his assumption that he would be around Sherlock for long enough to become accustomed to his extraordinary talents. It shouldn't have seemed so natural that after just a few weeks John couldn't imagine his life without Sherlock in it, making incredible deductions and, occasionally, startling him with a rare smile.

Sherlock was smiling slightly now, subconsciously grinning at the case, and John had to remind himself to breathe normally. 

"Wow."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock looked outrageously surprised at John's instinctive exclamation. John sighed, shaking his head but smiling back all the same.

"Oh come on Sherlock, you know that was impressive!" Little though he wanted to fuel the other boy's already inflated opinion of himself, John couldn't stop himself being impressed by Sherlock's extraordinary talent. Sherlock lifted his head, gloriously self-important and John held his smile, using it to conceal the jolt of pleasure at Sherlock's reaction.

"He must have been poisoned discreetly, so we're looking for a habit, an opportunity to slip them poison at a set time or place - and then the body was quickly moved to that house..." Sherlock mused, humming slightly as he thought. John decided Sherlock was missing the main point here, so he interrupted the developing monologue.

"Where he was shot. Through the heart." 

"Boring, John."

John huffed, and Sherlock shrugged at him as if to say that it wasn't _his_ fault this murder was so confoundedly tedious. John privately thought that being shot through the heart shortly after being poisoned warrented many reactions, none of which would be boredom. 

He turned fully to Sherlock, intending to berate him, but his words got waylaid somewhere around his tonsils by Sherlock's face, delightfully crumpled in concentration. There was a delicate crease in the middle of his eyebrows, and he had caught his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying at it subconsciously. The baseline of the light pink bow blended into crimson where it was snagged by a tooth, and John bit the inside of his own lip as his eyes were irresistibly drawn.

Sherlock's mouth snapped open in a gasp and John pulled himself out of his temporary madness.

"John-" Sherlock's voice was torturously low and John's heart began to thump. He didn't know what he expected Sherlock to say, but his chest ached in longing; could he possibly be hoping that Sherlock- No. Not that. He couldn't feel that. 

John swallowed, attempting to tune out the thumps of his heart that he was sure Sherlock could hear. Did Sherlock have heightened senses? Or was it just extraordinary brain power? As his mind spun, John knew he needed to stop this.

"There's going to be a-"

The cheery blip of Sherlock's phone cut through his words, as John tried to make sense of what Sherlock had begun to say. He was just coming to the somewhat disappointed conclusion that Sherlock was referring to the case - and of course he was; what were you _thinking_ John - when Sherlock turned to him, eyes wide, buzzing with excitement. He could barely stand still as he shoved his phone at John with one hand, using the other to shrug his shoulders back into the blazer that he'd discarded in his usual haphazard manner.

John read the text from Inspector Lestrade, head tilting as he took in the meaning. _Christ_. This was beyond anything he had expected.

**_Sherlock- there's been another. Shot through the heart. Tell me you've got a lead because this is serious._ **

**_Lestrade_ **

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic... I would really love to hear anything you have to say - constructive criticism is welcome!  
> Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it!


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